


Joy Comes With Morning

by protagonistically (the_protagonist)



Series: Joy Comes With Morning [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Homelessness, cannon character death, consequences of cannon character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8901727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_protagonist/pseuds/protagonistically
Summary: They're not exactly sure when Tim Drake came back. But to them, he's been dead for seven years. 
---
Prologue: 'It’s not the biggest shock to see Tim, though. He’s definitely around town and they know which shelters he prefers, and he stops at the clinics that work with Bruce. It’s not common Gotham knowledge that one of Bruce Wayne’s children is homeless, but certain people in-the-know send Bruce updates if they see him.'





	

It’s not like Damian keeps count, you know? He doesn’t, like, cross off the dates in his calendar like a love-sick teenager, or a girl counting the days until her period. It’s nothing like that, okay?

(‘Girls don’t do that anymore, Dami.’ Steph sighed and rolled her eyes, “We have an app for that.”)

It’s just that he does know that it’s been a few months. Two or three at the most since his dad has last seen Tim.

Bruce Wayne, his dad, keeps a lot of things to himself. He’s a quiet, reserved man that more or less doesn’t like to share anything that he deems unnecessary. And he definitely isn’t much of a feelings-sharer. But Bruce, since the very first time, lets every one know when there’s a Tim Drake sighting.

And it’s not like when they first found him.

When they saw him on some street in the lower numbers of Gotham and brought him back home with them. Bruce sent messages to everyone. It’s not the same because then it was Bruce informing everyone – telling them the good news. That his son was back. That Red Robin was back and that good news had to be shared with everyone who had ever loved and missed the boy.

Now Bruce tells people… differently. It’s almost conversationally. It would be, anyway, if Damian couldn’t read the desperation strained on the man’s face and singing through his voice.

(“I saw Tim today.”

“He was in front of the library and I caught him before he walked in.”

“I had an hour for lunch and I thought I might catch him there.”

“Have you seen Tim lately? When I saw him I think he looked pretty good, right?”

“I know it’s hard to predict, but I think he like hanging around the south street docks, lately. You know the one where the local trawlers dock? Yeah, I think he hangs out there… I think the fresh sea air is probably nice for him, you know?”)

Because they know now not to try and bring Tim back with them anymore. They know that they’ll get more out of him if they just walk next to him or take him to get a meal or a cup of coffee.

It’s just better to let Tim be- like a feral cat. It’s an apt comparison; it’s not like Tim’s not good at taking care of himself. The third Robin has been in charge of himself since he was ten, and it’s no different now that he’s 22.

But everyone’s face… everyone just gets so sad when Tim eventually leaves. Damian doesn’t like watching the people he loves look so… defeated over something so not catastrophic. It makes him feel like he did when he was ten. When Dick or Alfred would look at him and make eyes with each other. And then he would usually get a present out of nowhere. Or a favorite meal. Or there would be movie night. When Tim disappears again, it’s that all over. Damian knows Tim will be fine and sometimes and it’s hard for him to really understand why everyone looks so gutted when the room is emptied.

He’s alive. Isn’t that the most important thing?

But Damian will admit that Tim always leaves. They’ve played this game time and time again. One of them brings the man back with them and they prop him up on the sofa or on a bed, like he’s a child and not a full-grown man. They put a full plate of food in front of him. They shove him into a bathroom with grooming supplies and soft towels. They watch him watch them, watch his eyes narrow and twitch and jump around, person-to-person, carving up the room with anxiety and dissatisfaction in them.

It never takes long for Tim to mentally check out. Until he stops responding all together and they’re just sitting in each other’s silences. Or talking at a man whose body is there, but his mind is somewhere else. Somewhere they can’t reach. Damian thinks it’s the place he’s been for the last 6 years of so and that place kept him alive this long.

Tim usually lasts the longest with Bruce, but even with his father, there’s an expiration stamp on how long Tim will appease them for.

Damian has watched his father give Tim Drake more time and attention then he’s seen him give anyone, including the most elusive of criminals and monsters. This time Damian can’t say that Bruce isn’t trying, that he isn’t present.

But Bruce is himself; he’s Bruce Wayne and Batman, and the minute his attention is pulled away, for even a small pause, Tim is already out the door.

And care has to be take. They’ve all learned the hard way, that Tim will forget things in his haste to leave. He’ll leave his coat, when they get him to take it off, he’ll leave the food Alfred set aside for him.

Once at the end of March and there was still snow on the ground, he made it two miles to the bus stop before Dick came sprinting after him, holding the man’s treadless, threadbare sneakers.

Tim doesn’t have to sneak away then; he just walks out the door, maybe with a wave, maybe not. No one really tries to stop him anymore.

It’s not the biggest shock to see Tim, though. He’s definitely around town and they know which shelters he prefers, and he stops at the clinics that work with Bruce. It’s not common Gotham knowledge that one of Bruce Wayne’s children is homeless, but certain people in-the-know send Bruce updates if they see him.

So, it’s not like spotting a yeti or anything -

Damian is sure that he spots the man first. Bruce’s back is to him and he’s in full-on Brucie Wayne mode. A character of himself. Something so vapid and un-true to the actual man. Sometimes Damian can’t stand to be around him when he’s that far gone. That far deep. It’s like bad reality television that Dick keeps on in the background. Except it’s not television and it is his life.

Watching Bruce work a room used to be so interesting. When Damian was hungry for any crumb of information from the man. When Damian’s entire focus, his entire sense of self revolved around knowing everything about his father so he could follow suit, so he could be better then the man.

Damian is taller then Tim now. Bruce still has an inch on Damian, but probably not for much longer.

But Tim is still taller then his mental picture of the man. That man-kid-teenager that Damian remembers being so… so jealous of. So afraid of. So confused by.

That kid was 5’6, short but solid. Short but still with this bulk about him. The way he walked, the way he carried himself, Damian realizes, that’s what it was. That’s why Tim never really seemed particularly small and undersized.

The Tim memorialized in Damian’s mind is still 16. Still young, perfect looking; Tim Drake was shiny with promise with the way his eyes fired up, the way when he smiled his nose crinkled. His good hair. God, and if Damian wasn’t so scared and insecure about him. The way Tim insulated the spaces in between all these people in his life. Damian’s people.

But the man standing two block away from him, the man that is digging around in a dumpster behind a corner bodega is taller and thinner. Sharper.

He’s almost unrecognizable in his 5’9 frame and scraggily beard.

Tim is unrecognizable with nothing to spare on him. No fat, no lean curves. He’s just harsh angry lines. Just the same pale skin stretched over a larger frame that is turned inward towards himself. Screaming this defensive position, though there is nothing of great threat around.

Tim’s wearing a thick knit sweater that looks a little too short in his arms and Damian can see a flash of white skin on his back as it crawls up his spine.

Damian is in a collared shirt, his sport coat draped over his arm, because it’s unseasonably warm and he’s practically sweating through the stiff cotton he’s wearing and he wonders if Tim is too warm like he is, or if Tim wishes he had a jacket. He’s positive that Dick gave him a coat the last time they saw him, but Tim doesn’t seem to hold on to things very well. It’s hard to know if they get stolen or if Tim leaves them places. If Tim is giving their things away.

Something must give Damian away. A shift in his stance, the way he folds his arms, the lack of attention he’s giving to potential Wayne Enterprise partners, when he practically begged Bruce to let him come to the lunch-

(“It’s just schmoozing, Damian, nothing you will ever be good at. And you don’t have to be.”

“But you are-“

“They expect it from me, though. They know exactly who they’re dealing with when you’re in charge. That’s a good thing, son.”)

Damian doesn’t think he’s being obvious, but his dad something only Bruce would notice and then he’s off.

The older man turns his shoulder, glances to where Tim is, back still turned to them, and that’s all it takes. He calmly, firmly says, “Excuse me, everyone,” and he walks away from the group, leaving Damian with a group of suits gathered outside a vacant development property, that, and Damian’s only half sure of, was a murder site six months ago.

“Heh,” He watches as Bruce strides towards Tim, barely watches for cars as he crosses the street, “Let me call everyone cars to get back downtown,” He swipes his phone on and quickly texts Bruce’s PA the order and pockets the device. “Can I answer anyone’s questions about the property?” He sees that they’re hardly paying attention to him, their eyes glued on what is happening over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of what that crazy, unpredictable Brucie Wayne is going to do to that defenseless homeless man.

Damian can’t help himself. He’s trying not to turn and draw even more attention, but he can’t help it and spins just in time to watch his dad pull Tim into a full embrace, flat against his chest, chin pointed up and to the left of Tim’s head, into the man’s greasy black hair.

It takes a full minute and a half, Bruce holding the shorter man, maybe rocking just a little, until Tim’s arms move from where they had been hanging limp at his side. Until they curl up and wrap around Bruce’s ribs to return the hug.

Tim drops them fast, in the blink of an eye, but Damian catches a flash of Bruce’s white teeth as he unwraps his son.

The man keeps his hands on him though, one hand cupping Tim’s shoulder, the other pressed against Tim’s scruffy cheek, using his thumb to press under his chin and look into his eyes.

They’re far enough away that Damian can’t even see Bruce’s lips move, but he can see that Bruce forces Tim’s head up to meet his, and Tim is nodding and trying to not seem like he’s trying to hard to get away, to look anywhere else but at Bruce.

“Does Mr. Wayne… know that man?” A faceless person asks.

Bruce’s eyes are running over Tim now, hands on his arms, holding him away from him now, counting fingers, taking inventory of his clothes and what he’s wearing.

Tim lets him, chin against his chest and looking down at the pavement while Bruce moves him around like a puppet. 

Suddenly, Tim’s head snaps up and his eyes lock with his, and Damian’s body is wrecked with chills. Damian catches the light fan of Tim’s fingers, an almost wave. The most interaction they’ve had in months.

But before he can raise his own hand, Bruce is using his open palm to cup Tim’s chin face and refocus his attention once more.

“Mr. Wayne?-“ the person repeats.

Damian is angry all of a sudden and it literally hurts holding all the hostility, all the yelling and rage he has inside of him.

These people shouldn’t get to see this. They shouldn’t be allowed to judge Tim or Bruce or him. They don’t deserve to know anything about anything. This isn’t a show. This is his real life; this is his dad. This is his brother.

All the anger is behind his teeth and hot in his throat.

As he whips his head around, ready to release it, he see a few nondescript black Town-cars turn the corner and he quickly, quietly swallows everything back down.

“He’s family,” he finally says as the sedans roll to a stop in a neat, orderly line. “Please let me know if you have any additional questions about the property.”

And the first driver steps out of the car and briskly opens the passenger door.


End file.
